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Sunday, November 30, 2008

C - Sunday's Alphabet Prompt

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Suggested Prompt...

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C is for Coffee

Write a poem, story or an essay that includes a cup o'joe.

_________________________

Squirrel Hunting With Grandpa

Three a.m. on a winter morning in the 1940sI water and feed the rabbits (why do I always get the cold job?) as grandpa put homemade biscuits in the top warmerof the woodburning 4-burner stove. Grandma slept in.Grandpa made the coffee strongHandful in a pot of boiling water, one of those gallon sizedBlue Ceramic with white flecks coffee pots.To the smoke house, slice off fresh cured bacon with rind onFry to a crisp, remove coffee pot from stovePut bacon on towel to drainCrack two brown hen eggs at a timeInto the smokin' bacon grease they goThrow the shells into the coffee pot to settle the grounds(In those days there were no electric coffee makers with paper or gold filters)Turn the eggs once when edges are brownButter the biscuits (real butter) and call JimFix his plate first while his eggs are frying.Grandpa had everything down to a science. His coffee was so strong it was a task to close one's eyes after drinking a cup. Without cream or sugar. Black Coffee. Steaming hot. The perfect drink preceeding a squirrel hunt, Grandpa's favorite prey. Couldn't even blink!Eggs were done clear through, bacon crunchy, biscuit crusty,soft buttery inside, gone in a flash.Grandpa sits down, drinks his coffee, tells me to go start the truck, a 1949 GMC 3-speed stick shift green farm work stinks like chickens and pigs and hay vehicle. Grandpa trusted my driving skill since both he and my step-father taught me to drive when I was six years old. We gleaned corn from farmers' fields to feed the pigs. My cousin Denny never learned to shift too well...because I always put it in high gear when it was his turn to move up the row. He stalled the motor every time, and Grandpa would yell, 'Danny, get out and let Jim move the truck.' Denny fumed. He didn't like to hunt or do anything outdoors, I guess that is why Grandpa favored me.

Grandpa put the guns we had oiled and checked the night before into the space in back of the seat (he never put them outside where they could be stolen). Unloaded, of course. Three primary rules never to be broken around Grandpa was that you always assumed a gun is loaded, never point it at anything you're not going to shoot, and never run with a gun. Violation of any of Grandpa's rules resulted in a painful trip to the smokehouse, where he kept a cured rawhide paddle. Three whacks on the bare bottom was the usual fare, and one dreaded a fourth swat. He rarely went that far, however, knowing the embarrassment that just going to the smokehouse caused. Everyone knew the procedure: Enter, drop your drawers, bend over. No pleas for mercy, no whimpering, no screaming. Just endure the three, then you're done. The worst part is walking out to the twitters of the assembled friends and relatives. Part of the punishment was the humiliation. I only went to the smokehouse three times. That first trip brought me four whacks. I learn fast.

Driving 50 miles to the Younger farm (yes, relatives of the Jesse James gang) in Chester, Illinois in the pre-dawn darkness took over an hour, so it was almost sunup when we arrived. We took our position in the hickory woods and waited, usually back to back. Grandpa usually got his limit of 5 squirrels in just a couple of hours. He was a combination stalker/camouflaged ambusher. His trusty .22 rifle was his preferred weapon for squirrels, and a 16-gauge double-barreled shotgun for rabbits. His squirrels were normally shot through the head, as Grandpa didn't want to waste the meat. He bought me my first gun, a Savage-Stevens .410 gauge double barrel, which I learned to use with deadly proficiency under his tutelage.

Making a mistake with a gun was something Grandpa never did, and if we did, we paid for it. I did on two occasions. One, after my very first kill at age 8, I ran with the rifle to retrieve the squirrel, I was so excited. I remember begging with Grandpa not to take me into the smoke house, all the way home. It did no good, only made matters worse. I got the four whacks.

I drank coffee most all the time at Grandma and Grandpa's. They also let me smoke. Bull Durham, roll-your-own. I was twelve.

I smoked for 20 years, up to 4 packs of Pall Mall or Camel or Lucky Strike (no sissy filters for me, like Marlboro) before I quit cold turkey. I also quit drinking alcohol. I still drink coffee, though, hot and black or sometimes with a bit of cream and friendly conversation with friends. Marvelous beverage!

Jim Pankey, USN (Ret.)

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15 comments:

thats a cute picture laura i had few wonderful moments in a coffe shop in a busy lane of ours.they had served a coffe with the same design.they were great moments with my friends. with rains pouring down the glasses, and watching people running around to make themselves safe. you had brought back those sweet memories. your blog is wonderful........looking forward to see more beautiful pictures!!!

As he sat in front of the coffee shop in the hard metal chair, he barely noticed the drizzle around him. He saw the cream in his coffee take the shape of a little embryo, and his heart broke all over again. His heart broke for his wife, the love of his life, who seemed to be disappearing down a dark hole that he was powerless to help her out of.But his heart also broke for himself and the dream of lifting and twirling that child in the air, laughing and loving this little child more than life itself.Realizing that the drops in his coffee were his own tears, not the rain, he walked away to follow his wife.

Philip fixed a cup of coffee just the way he liked it and picked it up to take to his writing room (the shed, Kathy his wife called it) at the end of the garden. On the way out of the house, he bumped into Kathy. 'Phil, I can't find Prince's collar, do you know where it is?'Philip frowned. He had few hours for his writing, he didn't want to waste time searching for the dog's collar.'I don't know. Walk him through the woods, you won't need to put him on the leash,' Philip snapped.He went into the garden. Lucy was crouched on the ground staring at the bushes. 'Daddy, Daddy come and look at this.''What now?' Philip thought, but he dutifully detoured to his daughter. 'What?' he said.'Look Daddy, my caterpillars have formed a chrysalis. That means they are going to change and turn into beautiful butterflies.''Yeah, that's nice,' Philip said. Another few minutes wasted when he could have been working. He frowned and stomped down the path and went into his shed. Inside, sitting on his comfy chair, he sighed. This was the life.He booted up his computer and opened a new document. He stared at the blank page and the cursor blinking invitingly.His mind was blank. What to write about?Five, ten minutes passed.He picked up his coffee cup. The letter c swirled in the cream on the top. It made him think of his wife and his daughter. An idea blossomed in his mind.Maybe it wasn't wasted time talking to them after all, he thought.

This place is specialThe roaster in the cornerchurns out the burnt toast smell wafting out the door and across the parking lotluring me inTables cozy and uniquewith colorful tile mosaicsencouraging lingeringThe churning and shushing of theespresso makerbubbling over with foamdeliciousliquid courageto face my dayI cannot live withoutThey know me here by namemy special requestvanilla chai zinger pleaseThis cup is a frothy work of hearthelping me to face whatever comes next and ensuring that I willbe back tomorrow.----This is in honor of my favorite coffee shop, Emy Js. No big chain, just a little family owned shop that feels like the next best place to being at home. But with better coffee and more sparkling conversation! Support your local businesses! Enjoy the day!Erinhttp://treasures-found.blogspot.com

My 23 year old son is adopted. We adopted him when he was 3 months old. We moved from our town when he was five. 4 Years ago, we moved back to our hometown. Our son stayed behind in St. Louis attending college. Due to a long chain of events, he moved back a year ago to our hometown. Looking for a partime job, he applied at 7 of the Starbucks here in town. He was hired by one of them. 6 Months ago, he called about 8pm and ask me and his mom some advice. He said there is a girl he works with at Starbucks that is going to tell him something that will change his life after he gets off work. We told him we ha no idea what she may want but to call us after the meeting. He called back at midnight. He said "you guys better sit down"...."The girl I work with is best friends with my birth mother"! Indiana has closed adoption laws...after 22 years of no contact and being out of town he went to work at the one Starbucks store where this girl worked. Funny how life gives direction even if you aren't aware of it happening. The birth mother has a 13 year old son and was giving him the talk about "when I was 16, I made a mistake and had a child and give him up for adoption so don't make the same mistake I did. The 13 year old says..."do you know anything about him"? The mother says no, not other than his name is ......So the 13 year old went to Facebook typed in .....and the profile came up ....Hi I am ....and I live in .....and work at Starbucks. The 13 year old thinks...Our friend works at one of the Starbucks in town. The 13 year old called the friend and said, "do you happen to work with a ....." She said" Yeah, I have worked with him for about 6 months". The 13 year old screamed....."Oh my God, it's my brother"! This person at Starbucks was the one who told my son something that changed his life.

I'll be 69 years old on the 6th. I take morning pills for arthritis, neuropathy, pain, depression, and hypertension...and wash them down half an hour later at Pop's, the Hangar One Cafe, or at Ya-Ya's with half a dozen cups of hot, satisfying, caffeinated Colombian coffee with a dab of cream.

The doctor tells me I shouldn't mix the drugs with the caffeine, but what the hell, it'll be another 90 days before I have to see him again. Besides, coffee makes for good conversation, drugs don't.

Three a.m. on a winter morning in the 1940sI water and feed the rabbits (why do I always get the cold job?) as grandpa put homemade biscuits in the top warmerof the woodburning 4-burner stove. Grandma slept in.Grandpa made the coffee strongHandful in a pot of boiling water, one of those gallon sizedBlue Ceramic with white flecks coffee pots.To the smoke house, slice off fresh cured bacon with rind onFry to a crisp, remove coffee pot from stovePut bacon on towel to drainCrack two brown hen eggs at a timeInto the smokin' bacon grease they goThrow the shells into the coffee pot to settle the grounds(In those days there were no electric coffee makers with paper or gold filters)Turn the eggs once when edges are brownButter the biscuits (real butter) and call JimFix his plate first while his eggs are frying.Grandpa had everything down to a science. His coffee was so strong it was a task to close one's eyes after drinking a cup. Without cream or sugar. Black Coffee. Steaming hot. The perfect drink preceeding a squirrel hunt, Grandpa's favorite prey. Couldn't even blink!Eggs were done clear through, bacon crunchy, biscuit crusty,soft buttery inside, gone in a flash.Grandpa sits down, drinks his coffee, tells me to go start the truck, a 1949 GMC 3-speed stick shift green farm work stinks like chickens and pigs and hay vehicle. Grandpa trusted my driving skill since both he and my step-father taught me to drive when I was six years old. We gleaned corn from farmers' fields to feed the pigs. My cousin Denny never learned to shift too well...because I always put it in high gear when it was his turn to move up the row. He stalled the motor every time, and Grandpa would yell, 'Danny, get out and let Jim move the truck.' Denny fumed. He didn't like to hunt or do anything outdoors, I guess that is why Grandpa favored me.

Grandpa put the guns we had oiled and checked the night before into the space in back of the seat (he never put them outside where they could be stolen). Unloaded, of course. Three primary rules never to be broken around Grandpa was that you always assumed a gun is loaded, never point it at anything you're not going to shoot, and never run with a gun. Violation of any of Grandpa's rules resulted in a painful trip to the smokehouse, where he kept a cured rawhide paddle. Three whacks on the bare bottom was the usual fare, and one dreaded a fourth swat. He rarely went that far, however, knowing the embarrassment that just going to the smokehouse caused. Everyone knew the procedure: Enter, drop your drawers, bend over. No pleas for mercy, no whimpering, no screaming. Just endure the three, then you're done. The worst part is walking out to the twitters of the assembled friends and relatives. Part of the punishment was the humiliation. I only went to the smokehouse three times. That first trip brought me four whacks. I learn fast.

Driving 50 miles to the Younger farm (yes, relatives of the Jesse James gang) in Chester, Illinois in the pre-dawn darkness took over an hour, so it was almost sunup when we arrived. We took our position in the hickory woods and waited, usually back to back. Grandpa usually got his limit of 5 squirrels in just a couple of hours. He was a combination stalker/camouflaged ambusher. His trusty .22 rifle was his preferred weapon for squirrels, and a 16-gauge double-barreled shotgun for rabbits. His squirrels were normally shot through the head, as Grandpa didn't want to waste the meat. He bought me my first gun, a Savage-Stevens .410 gauge double barrel, which I learned to use with deadly proficiency under his tutelage.

Making a mistake with a gun was something Grandpa never did, and if we did, we paid for it. I did on two occasions. One, after my very first kill at age 8, I ran with the rifle to retrieve the squirrel, I was so excited. I remember begging with Grandpa not to take me into the smoke house, all the way home. It did no good, only made matters worse. I got the four whacks.

I drank coffee most all the time at Grandma and Grandpa's. They also let me smoke. Bull Durham, roll-your-own. I was twelve.

I smoked for 20 years, up to 4 packs of Pall Mall or Camel or Lucky Strike (no sissy filters for me, like Marlboro) before I quit cold turkey. I also quit drinking alcohol. I still drink coffee, though, hot and black or sometimes with a bit of cream and friendly conversation with friends. Marvelous beverage!

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